Liese Ricketts

Amid the cornfields of Indiana, in the middle of nowhere, there is a four way stop known, by locals, as Shoe Corner. Discarded shoes randomly grace the four corners at the stop: high heels, baby shoes, ballet slippers, work boots, sneakers. A road crew comes by to clean up each week and, soon after they leave, there appear more shoes, different shoes. For fifty odd years, some say more, throughout all seasons, these colorful lumps appear, the persistent and mysterious litter of a clandestine American fringe I enjoy.